Mikha scrolled lazily through the dating app as the microwave hummed behind her, casting a dull blue glow across her face. Another match. Some girl named Camille with a too-perfect smile and a bio full of buzzwords: spiritual, soft launch energy, will cry at concerts.
She rolled her eyes, thumb hovering over the chat button.
Nope.
She tossed her phone on the couch beside her and pulled her reheated dinner from the microwave—leftover pad thai, limp and oily. The kind of meal you eat standing up in the middle of your kitchen, because what's the point of setting a table for one?
She took a bite, not tasting any of it.
Another match buzzed.
Another name she wouldn't remember.
It had been like this for years now—fleeting dates, weekend things that fizzled out by Monday, polite conversations that never made it past the third exchange. A revolving door of almosts.
And none of them stuck.
Because none of them were her.
Mikha hated that she still thought that way.
But how could she not?
Three years and she hadn't found anyone who cracked her open the way Aiah did—soft and sharp, all at once. Aiah had been her chaos, her comfort, her worst fight and her best day. And when she left... she took something with her that Mikha had never figured out how to replace.
Everyone told her to move on. God knows she tried. She downloaded all the apps, got set up by friends, said yes to girls who were sweet, funny, beautiful. But none of them felt right.
Some were boring.
Some were liars.
One got too attached and cried on the third date.
Another asked if she was "emotionally ready" after Mikha accidentally mentioned her wife in the past tense.
Mikha hadn't even corrected her.
Not because it was easier.
But because it was true.
At least, it was supposed to be.
She flopped onto her couch, legs dangling off the edge, staring at the ceiling like it might offer answers. Her apartment was quiet, too clean, filled with all the things she once said she'd never own—neutral throw pillows, fake plants, a rice cooker.
She laughed bitterly.
Aiah would've teased her for the throw pillows. Called them excessive. Said they were just "useless decor for commitment-phobes."
She closed her eyes.
Fuck.
She hadn't thought about her this much in months. Or maybe she had, but it was easier to pretend she hadn't.
She turned her head toward the small table by the window.
The framed photo was still there.
The one she meant to put away but never did.
They were at Griffith Park in it. Aiah was laughing, off-guard, sun in her eyes, hair pinned back with Mikha's favorite clip. Mikha had taken the picture. Aiah had hated it. Mikha printed it anyway.
She stared at it now.
Her phone buzzed again—another match.
She didn't even bother looking.
